


Undergarments?

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones’ comments regarding Spock won’t get out of Jim’s head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undergarments?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cyrianne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyrianne/gifts).



> A/N: Holiday ‘drabble’ for Lyhr [on tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/66814629392/musing) who asked for “light and sexy [...] Jim wondering and obsessing if Spock goes commando beneath his Vulcan Robe”. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They’ll only be docked for a few days while Scotty updates their warp nacelles, but it’s enough time to make the trip down to Earth. Starfleet provides accommodations for the entire crew, though many members still have homes to go to. Jim’s assigned an apartment to share with his first officer, while Bones is given one to share with Scotty, who never actually comes down from the station. Bones spends the first half of the first day enjoying his ‘peace and quiet,’ and then he’s begrudgingly at their door. 

The grudge is at Spock, who doesn’t join them, simply sits in his Vulcan robe at the one computer terminal in the tiny apartment, coldly ignoring them. Bones eats half their food and badgers Jim about that physical Jim’s been ducking for two weeks, and he suggests a trip to the bar that Jim would definitely agree to if it weren’t for Spock’s intensely disapproving looks. If Jim didn’t know better, he’d think Spock just as irritated with Bones’ presence as the other way around. (Particularly Bones’ involvement with Jim. As though _Jim_ could possibly be the one negatively influenced by someone else.) It feels sort of like a silent war for his attention that Bones ultimately wins via alcohol. By the end of the night, Jim’s halfway through his second or third bottle of mostly-synthehol and recounting a story from their Academy days for maybe the fifteenth time. 

Spock ruins the punch line by announcing loudly from his seat halfway across the room, “I believe it is getting later, Doctor.”

“Yeah?” Bones grunts, taking another sip of his makeshift mint julip. Jim has to stop his story, but the frown he sends at Spock isn’t nearly so disgruntled as Bones’. Deep down, Jim’s sure they both do care for one another, but... they do have a way of making his life difficult the rest of the time. “I believe the Earth is round, but you don’t hear me ruining your conversations to tell you that.”

Spock pauses the screen of his console, which he’s been working on the entire time since they arrived, and glances over his shoulder, expression somewhere between neutral and _icy_. “I should hope not, as it is unlikely that would have any bearing upon the conversation whatsoever.” His gaze lingers for a few seconds; they seem to be in a staring contest. Jim, more than used to being caught in the middle and sick of being that tonight, reaches over to the coffee table and grabs a handful of crackers out of the snack bowl. If he’s got them stuffed into his mouth, he won’t have to talk through this. He left all his witty negotiation skills back up on the bridge. 

Finally, Bones looks away, rolling his eyes. He sighs, takes another gulp of alcohol, and slams his near-empty glass down on the table. He puts his hands on his knees and pushes to his feet. He stretches in front of the couch. Jim’s compelled to ask around his crackers, “You’re leaving?”

Because as much as he knows their chatter is driving Spock mad, Bones is good company. (Spock is too, but Jim’s been chatting in Spock’s workspace too, and he’s not expecting a particularly warm time once Bones is gone.) Bones shrugs his shoulders like it’s nothing and cricks his neck. “Eh, I need my beauty rest, anyway.” With a snort, Bones nods his head towards Spock. “And so will you, after the next few days trapped in close quarters with the hobgoblin.”

They’re not that close. Yes, the beds are barely a meter apart, the bedroom so tight that he’ll probably be able to hear Spock’s breathing, smell Spock across from him, could probably even reach out and touch Spock’s elbow from his own bed if he wanted to. (Not that that’s likely to happen.) But he survived even tighter accommodations when he was a cadet, and this is nothing. He stands up, prepared to walk Bones to the door and can’t help but joke, “You sound jealous.”

Spock looks around at them again as if to ask what’s taking them so long, and Bones says with complete sarcasm, “I’m dying of envy.” He bends to grab his drink, polishing off the glass. 

As soon as he puts it back down, Spock starts, “Doctor, as much as I’m sure the captain appreciates your company, it is now past—”

“Alright, alright,” Bones snaps, “Keep your pants on!” Bones promptly snatches his civilian coat off the back of the couch, while both of Spock’s eyebrows knit together in evident confusion.

“I am not wearing any pants.”

Jim looks over at him. Just like how Jim and Bones have switched into regular shirts and pants, Spock’s sporting just a white Vulcan robe, synched around his waist with a black tie. Bones ignores the comment and strolls for the door, while Jim keeps staring. He’s used to Spock’s differences and failed to properly note this one. His eyes slide over the thin, sleek fabric, down the elegant line of Spock’s legs: the hem stops just above Spock’s ankle. Jim supposes he isn’t wearing any pants. 

Which makes perfect sense for a robe. Jim shakes it off, jerking himself back to life, and he follows after Bones. At the door, Bones gives him a dry, “Good luck.”

Jim shrugs and says, “Maybe we’ll go out tomorrow.” Bones nods but looks sideways—knowing him, he will find something actually adult and worthwhile to do, though the bar might still happen. He waves and heads off down the hall; Jim lets the door slide shut behind him. 

Jim stares at the empty space where his best friend used to be, and he finds his thoughts oddly blank. He shakes his head, scratches the back of it, and heads over to clean up their dishes. 

Then he finds his bag in the corner and pulls out a PADD, figuring it’s ever so slightly too early to sleep, and he might as well get some work done, too. He’d rather play, or at least enjoy _Spock’s company_ , but... “Spock?”

Spock takes a second before answering, most likely having to pause a running program. “Yes?”

“Wanna play chess?” That’s a staple of them being alone together, as they so often are.

“I am working at the moment, Captain.”

“Ah. Well... carry on.” So much for that. He flips through his PADD as he heads back for the couch, sitting gingerly down and trying to kick his head back into the regular speed it retained before Bones ruined him with that ‘pants’ comment. ...Uselessly on that subject, actually, this is probably the first time Jim’s seen Spock without pants. Not that that has any relevance to anything whatsoever. That’s all normal. ...It’s not like he’s not wearing underpants. 

Jim’s staring at a blank screen, brain, if possible, freezing even slower. Spock wouldn’t... wouldn’t... would he? It’s not as if Jim has much knowledge of Vulcan dressing habits, and he knows not even all Earth cultures wear underwear, though it only makes sense, is only standard, and surely Spock wears underwear beneath his normal uniform. Right? Is that part of the whole Starfleet uniform...?

Blinking stupidly, Jim can’t think of any time he’s ever been issued underwear along with the rest of his uniform. It’s just sort of a given, isn’t it? He glances over his shoulder. Maybe it’s getting later than he thought. There aren’t any windows in this room. Maybe he’s experiencing spacelag, and it’s making his mind duller than usual. Or maybe Bones just has a way of inadvertently reducing him to a child. 

Another three minutes of nonsensical rationalizing, and Jim tosses his PADD aside. He gets up and strolls over to Spock, determined to end this mystery so he can move on with his life. He reaches Spock, and Spock looks up at him expectantly. Jim opens his mouth and belatedly realizes he has no clue how to ask Spock if he’s wearing any underwear without the conversation derailing very quickly. First of all, it’s not exactly a logical question up to Spock’s usual dignified standards, and second of all, Jim probably shouldn’t be asking his subordinates what goes on under their uniforms. 

Eventually, Spock seems to realize he has nothing to say and looks back around. Spock’s fingers return to moving across the keyboard—he had to turn off voice control the second Bones strolled through the door. He probably isn’t reverting back out of respect for Jim. As one arm moves to reach the furthest top left button, his robe shifts slightly, the middle parting just an extra millimeter. It’s enough to catch Jim’s eye. The robe closes about three-quarters up his chest. Jim, acting mostly on instinct, leans a little forward over. His hands lift to Spock’s shoulders, steadying Spock in place as he tries to take his peek, and then he abruptly looks away again when Spock stiffens. 

“Captain?”

“Spock.” Jim has to cough to keep his voice neutral. Spock waits a minute, but no explanation comes, probably because Jim really doesn’t have a good one. This is perfectly innocent, though. He has every right to clap a crewman on the shoulder. Or shoulders. For a lingering period of time. 

“Are you intoxicated?”

Jim’s cheeks instantly flush, and he practically splutters to say, “What? No, it was synthesized—” (Mostly.)

“Even synthesized alcohol is capable of inhibiting an individual’s cognitive functions if taken in a great enough quantity.”

“Good thing I only had one bottle, then,” Jim insists, though he knows that’s not entirely true. Something tells him Spock knows, too. Well, he might be a little buzzed, but he’s sure he’s still legally sober. Spock doesn’t say anything. 

Spock pauses before returning to typing as though nothing’s happened, while Jim continues to hold on, the glossy fabric beneath his fingers velvety soft. One of those fingers shifts, and it takes another couple millimeters with it. 

Hit by a stroke of something between sheer genius and utter idiocy, Jim squeezes his hands, and he says before Spock can ask, “I just thought I’d give you a massage.” Spock could certainly use it—his shoulders are incredibly tense in Jim’s grip. Jim kneads them gently to demonstrate—he does know how to do this.

By some strange miracle, Spock doesn’t protest. Jim works his way left and right in short, soothing circles, then moves all along Spock’s collarbone and down to his biceps, then up and over again. Jim focuses mostly on his own hands, not wanting to be obvious, but he is conscious of how much fabric he moves, and he does lean over to try and steal the best glance he can down Spock’s chest, exposed more and more as Jim loosens everything. The belt is ruining most of his chances, though. If he could just untie the sash, or maybe just jostle that area enough to loosen it... it’s just crossed, not knotted: shouldn’t be that hard, if he does this right...

He slips one hand experimentally down Spock’s chest, not far, just tracing Spock’s breastbone. Spock stiffens, but doesn’t stop him. He does the same with his other hand, rubbing gentle circles, and the more he rubs, the more he can feel the small pebbles of Spock’s nipples through the fabric. Spock’s breath catches. Jim’s faintly aware that he’s crossing a line. But he and Spock have always been particularly close. He spends a good chunk of his time on the ship looking over Spock’s shoulder, not that different from this, and Spock spends even more time by the captain’s chair. They’ve spent more than one late night together—just playing chess, of course—and obviously Jim has a _connection_ with Spock that he’s never had with any other member of his crew. Or anyone, really. ...Okay, maybe he had more than two bottles of synthetic alcohol...

But Spock doesn’t stop him. Jim leans over his first officer, hand sliding just that little but lower, fingertips brushing over the sash. His other hand is still at Spock’s chest, and it ghosts over until it’s brushing the opening of Spock’s robe, then slipping beneath, he didn’t even mean to, but with all of Spock’s pale skin _right there_ , he couldn’t be expected not to—

Spock grabs his wrist suddenly, and Jim freezes in place. Spock seems to hesitate before he asks, “Is this a normal part of an Earth massage?”

Jim glances sideways at his face. The angle isn’t perfect, but it’s enough to show that Spock isn’t angry or suspicious, just the regular neutrality. Spock looks back at him, and Jim’s not sure he could lie right to Spock’s face. He opens his mouth, not sure what to say. 

He blurts, “Are you wearing underwear?”

For a fraction of a second, Spock’s eyebrow twitches. Then it’s back to stoicism, and he asks, “Why would you want to know?”

“Uh... just curious.” Jim normally functions far better under pressure than this, really. 

Spock doesn’t look at all convinced. “That is a strange thing to be curious about, Jim.” _Jim_. They’ve switched over from _captain_ for the night. 

Jim has the sudden, inexplicable urge to take this further. He could probably wrench his hand right out of Spock’s grip and go for the gold—if he felt Spock’s crotch, he’s sure he’d know immediately whether or not there was an extra layer of fabric there. Or maybe he should go for Spock’s face. It’s so close, and possibly-drunk or not, Jim knows how to kiss. He could lower Spock’s defenses, just trying to gain Spock’s trust, of course: a simple intelligence-gathering mission. He could even get Spock all the way to the bedroom, and then he’d find out...

He repeats, “Are you wearing underwear?”

Spock twists around a little in his seat, looking up over his shoulder to get a proper look at Jim. Jim turns a bit pinker under the scrutiny, but otherwise doesn’t move. He’s hoping his face doesn’t betray him. Betray what, he’s not even certain. The drinking? The sudden questioning of his sexuality? His even more questionable intelligence? Spock seems to be considering him, gathering some greater answer.

Then Spock asks, to Jim’s utter shock, “Are you?”

Jim _stares._ He asks numbly, “Am I what?”

“Are you wearing any underwear?”

Before Jim can think it—because did _Commander Spock_ of all people seriously just ask him that—he says, “No.” Then he hurriedly corrects, “But I do on duty, and most people do, it’s just that we’re not on duty and...” He trails off.

Spock lifts an eyebrow. 

Spock looks sideways and comments to no one in particular, “Fascinating.” He’s still holding onto Jim’s wrist. Jim gets the distinct impression Spock’s made some sort of truly significant decision. 

He turns back to the computer, and Jim has to ask, “Spock?” But Spock’s simply saving his files and shutting the terminal down. When the screen goes blank, Spock pushes Jim’s hands away and promptly gets to his feet. He walks around his chair, takes one more sweeping glance of Jim’s entire body, and walks off. He’s headed straight for the bedroom. 

But that can’t be right in the middle of this conversation, so Jim calls after him, “Where are you going?”

For exactly as long as it takes him to say it, Spock pauses and turns around, announcing, “To give you your answer.”

Then he continues walking, Jim hot on his heels.


End file.
